


Sparks Fly

by ziskandra



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Hate Sex, Misuse of Biotics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziskandra/pseuds/ziskandra
Summary: When Jack had promised to smear the walls with Miranda, she hadn't meant it quite like this.
Relationships: Jack | Subject Zero/Miranda Lawson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 56
Collections: Rare Pairs Exchange 2020





	Sparks Fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cullenlovesmen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/gifts).



Jack is intrigued when she receives the message from Miranda. _Meet me in the engine room in five minutes,_ it reads. Fuck Jack if that doesn’t sound like an invitation to fight. Shepard might have instructed them to remain a deck apart, but Jack’s not a soldier. She doesn’t have to follow orders. Besides, she’s pretty damn sure that was just to stop her from shredding Miranda into tiny little fillets, and if Miranda wants to bring Jack’s attention and wrath down upon herself, then so be it.

She won’t actually kill the other woman, even though she’s certainly made heads roll for less. She can spare Shepard this small mercy, at least.

When Jack enters the room, Miranda closes the door behind her with a surge of biotics, hand glowing blue as she gestures, sparks dancing across her skin.

Jack’s upper lip curls into a sneer. “Is this your idea of showing off?” she asks, as she paces closer to Miranda, feeling very much like a feral cat stalking its prey. Miranda is nothing to her, a weakling and a spoilt brat. She’d snap her neck if it wasn’t for her promise to Shepard.

Miranda holds her gaze. Jack can respect that, at least. She continues to close in, get right into the other woman’s space, their faces only inches apart just as they had been during their earlier argument, the one that Shepard had so rudely interrupted.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miranda says in that stuffy tone that Jack hates, although she delights in the way the other woman’s shoulders stiffen. “I’ve noticed there’s some tension between us. I’m offering an opportunity to work it out.”

Jack lets out a ragged laugh, a hand coming to rest at the back of her neck. “Yeah? What, I choke you between my thighs until you’re _just_ about to pass out, and then let go? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little miss perfect?”

Jack swears she’d mostly said the words to get a rise out of Miranda: Miranda’s always calling her crude and immature, telling her to watch her language, censoring her rude gestures. What she’s not expecting is to get an entirely _different_ sort of rise out of her, watches those flawless cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink.

_Oh, shit._

For the better or the worse, Jack’s never had great impulse control. She blames that on what spills out of her mouth next, before she can quite stop herself. “Bet you’ve never even fucked a woman before.”  
  
She’ll blame being too distracted by the narrowing of Miranda’s eyes for what happens next: Miranda’s hands, flat against her tits, and Jack is thrown against the far side of the room, slamming into the railing that separates them from the drive core.

“What the fuck,” Jack swears, more impressed than surprised. Yet at the same time she feels her own biotics surging, preparing for an attack.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Jack,” Miranda says as she walks over to where Jack lays.

Jack pushes herself up off the floor, into a crouching position. She’d always thought Miranda was pretty, in an annoying sort of way, the type of woman who’d use all the skincare and creams to maintain her looks, if she weren’t so naturally beautiful. Jack might not know a whole lot about Miranda, but she knows enough, knows that this bitch was genetically engineered to be perfect, that those terrific tits in that stupidly tight catsuit _were_ designer, just not in the usual way.

She lets her anger boil in her fists as she spits out, “Yeah? Well I didn’t get a chance to read your fucking _dossier_!”  
  
This time, it’s Miranda that’s being flung across the room, hitting the sealed door and sliding to the ground with an angry thud. Jack’s not stupid enough to let her guard down twice, and she pounces forward in a biotic surge, pinning Miranda to the floor between her thighs. Jack can’t miss the way Miranda’s eyes widen, and it’s _delicious._

“I could fucking kill you,” Jack reminds her, but Miranda doesn’t seem dissuaded in the slightest. In fact, her breathing quickens, like she’s getting off on this or some shit. Oh, Jack might refrain from murdering Miranda, but she’s definitely not going to let her live this down. Drags her knee further up the other woman’s inner thigh instead, tantalisingly close to her cunt.

“But you won’t,” Miranda says, echoing Jack’s thoughts with an aggravating smirk. “You’re enjoying this too much.”  
  
Jack’s nostrils flare at the insinuation that she’s enjoying _any_ time spent trapped in a room with Miranda, but she doesn’t bother to argue, because… damn it, she’s right. She refuses to entertain the thought that this had been what Miranda had meant all along, by working out tension. It’s not actually a bad idea. She’s just surprised that prissy Miranda, stick-up-her-perfect-ass Miranda, was the one to think of it.

“I’m going to make this the best fuck of your life,” Jack says, jaw setting. She’s never been the type of person to back down from a challenge once it’s been issued, and from the expression on Miranda’s face, it’s clear that it was very much meant as a _challenge_.

Miranda gets in the first hit, hands finding Jack’s tits again, fingers spreading wide over the swell of her breasts. It’s not as though Jack’s in the business of wearing much in the way of upper-body clothing, but this is a different sort of exposure, the type that makes her nipples harden and strain under the straps of the harness she uses to contain her chest. Miranda’s barely touched her and yet she can feel herself getting wet between the thighs. Fuck, it’s really been too long.

Jack’s eyes widen as Miranda’s hands glow blue once more, and she braces for impact. She doesn’t anticipate what happens next: targeted little bolts of biotics, dancing over her tits, underneath her straps, tweaking her nipples with what is literally just mini mass effect fields, but feels like magic.

“I see someone’s taught you that little trick,” Jack says, cursing at how out of breath she sounds already. Miranda stays silent, her hands in place, brow furrowed in concentration. It takes more out of a person to work with such precise biotic energy. She’d know. As thoroughly distracted as she is by Miranda’s attention on her nipples, she draws on her own personal reservoir of power for her next act: getting Miranda out of her ridiculous outfit.

Focusing on creating tiny little mass effect fields, she sets to tear apart Miranda’s catsuit right around her midriff; that’ll give her suitable access to both her tits and her lower body, she thinks. And if she misses the mark just slightly, and Miranda ends up with some mild abrasions in the process… Oh well. Shit happens.

Confident in her own finely-tuned abilities, more destructive than Miranda’s own, she lets go, and relishes in Miranda’s surprise. _Bet you weren’t expecting that, you fucking cheerleader._

“You owe me a new set of clothes,” Miranda admonishes, but she shows no sign of calling off whatever the fuck it is they’re doing here. Not that Jack thought she would. They’ve gone too far without seeing things through to completion, without crowing a victor to their little competition.

Jack grins. Feral. Hungry. “When I’m done with you, you won’t ever want to wear clothes again.”  
  
“Is that why you always walk around half na--” Miranda starts, but Jack’s been busy pushing unnecessary material out of the way, spandex and frilly black lace undies (of fucking course). Her fingers find Miranda’s cunt and she’s pleased to find the other woman is just as wet as she is. Good, although Jack knows she can do better.

Some things in life are better done manually, Jack thinks as she lowers her face between Miranda’s legs, inhaling the sweet sharp tang of want and need, nosing in between folds before her lips find the other woman’s clit and sucks it, hard, drawing out a yearning yelp from Miranda before Jack gets comfortable and sets to work, getting herself into an enjoyable rhythm before resting her hands on Miranda’s waist, biotics tingling at her fingertips.

“Oh—” Miranda starts as their eyes meet, but she can barely speak for how heavy she’s breathing. There’s a moment where she must be aware of what Jack is about to do, but is powerless (or better yet, _unwilling)_ to stop it.

 _Time to give the cheerleader a taste of her own medicine._ Jack lets blue sparks fly from her fingertips: they dance up Miranda’s torso and dive under the cuts Jack had made into her catsuit, As they circle around Miranda’s nipples she cries out, her body arching underneath Jack’s, and it’s all Jack can do to keep her momentum, one hand staying in place to continue her biotic ministrations while the other shifts to Miranda’s cunt, inserting a finger, then two, crooking them against the soft spot at the back of warm, slick depths.

“Fuck—” Miranda gasps. Jack’s never heard Miranda swear before, but she likes it.

When Miranda comes, it’s like a small, localised explosion. Jack has always liked explosions, wishes to watch this one up close but the sheer energy radiating off Miranda’s body tosses Jack across the room, wrenching her away from her position in the other woman’s lap without so much as a thank-you. Typical, entitled bitch, but Jack can’t find it in her heart to be properly, actually mad. She dusts off her pants and makes her way back to Miranda, licking what remains of the other woman’s juices off her lips, and then sucking her fingers dry for good measure.

When she’d said she’d smear the walls with this bitch, she didn’t mean it quite like this.

Once Miranda’s calmed down enough to regain her focus, she looks at Jack with a quizzical expression, gaze drifting from her chest to the fly of her pants. “Don’t you want me to…” she starts, ending with a gesture that Jack can only interpret to mean: _return the favour._

“Not this time, sweetheart,” packing her tone with the condescension Miranda enjoys so much, leaning in to press a kiss against the corner of her mouth. Jack hopes Miranda can taste herself on her lips. “But if you ever want a round two, you know where to find me.” 

Breaking through the seal on the door with a surge of biotic energy, Jack doesn’t look back at the mess she’s made, at Miranda still lying on the floor, hair in disarray and clothing in tatters.

That’s a Miranda problem now.

As the door closes behind her, Jack can hear Miranda make a call to someone. “Shepard,” Miranda says, doing her best to hide her still-laboured breathing. “Jack and I have managed to… settle our differences.”

Jack grins.

Miranda will be back. She just knows it. 


End file.
